“No, we do not. It’s just, you know, the whole one bed thing. It’s like this recurring theme event thing; I don’t know the words for it.” I throw up my hands, completely annoyed with everything. “If you watch enough TV and read enough books, you know that if there’s only one bed in the room, then the couple that are not together as a couple—two people, or an alien and a human?—”
Realizing I’m babbling, I slam my mouth shut, taking a deep breath and collecting my thoughts before I continue. “Fuck this fucking truth serum. The two people that are not a couple, when one bed is presented, they fight over if they are going to share the bed or who will sleep on the floor, out of this idea of chivalry.”
“I’m supposed to fight you over sleeping on the floor?” he asks, clearly confused, which is frankly adorable, and I am not pleased at all that I find his confusion adorable.
I scrub a hand down my face, annoyed at him, at myself, at the truth serum, at Ken, and very, very, very much annoyed at my friends who insisted we sign up for this goddamned reality TV show in the first place.
“What happens after they argue over the bed and who gets to sleep on the floor?” Zan asks.
I don’t want to answer him, and I try as hard as I can to keep the words from coming out, my jaw clenched tight, my eyes squeezed shut. But there must be something in that truth serum that makes me want to tell him the answer to his questions, so I grit out the words with a pained expression on my face.
“They usually wake up cuddling.”
“Cuddling,” he repeats. His normally superior sneer and mischievous look have been replaced by pure confusion, his purple brow furrowed, white eyebrows nearly disappearing into his silver-white hair.
He looks cuter like that, like he doesn’t know what the hell I’m talking about. His wings fan out a little in confusion, his tail curling around his ankles, and his entire demeanor is so completely unlike anything I’ve ever seen from him that I take pity on him.
“You don’t have cuddling where you’re from?” I ask. “I’m sure you do,” I answer before he can say anything. I don’t want to embarrass him, at least not right now.
If you’d asked me a few hours ago if I’d like to embarrass him, I probably would have said yes. But right now, after he saved me from the giant evil chicken and listened to me and then was sweet and cooked for me, I might as well do him a solid and tell him the truth.
“Cuddling is when people, um, hold each other close to show affection, or maybe even sometimes because they’re cold, youknow, so they have to get close and share body heat. You don’t do that on your planet?” I ask again, even though I didn’t mean to, and it could be that I’m completely uncouth and in desperate need of some couth, or because of the serum, but it slips out nonetheless.
“I do not know this cuddling,” he says. His tone is very grave, his expression as serious as I’ve seen it. “Can you show me what this cuddling means?”
I stare at him for a long time, trying to decide if he is lying, but didn’t we just take some truth serum? And trying to work out whether or not asking a question counts as a lie is frankly giving me a headache, and I’m exhausted after being hung upside down by my ankle.
The least I can do is answer him.
“Yeah,” I manage. “I can. I can show you what cuddling means. But first I have got to get clean. I can’t even remember the last time I was able to brush my hair, let alone wash it. "..."and cuddling means like we’re going to be touching each other, so?—”
“You want your skin and hair to be clean for me.”
His cheeks turn a slightly darker shade of purple, and I run out of words. Not just words, I completely run out of thoughts.
For the life of me, I can’t figure out why he’s blushing.
“Are you blushing?” I blurt out, unable to help myself.
“I do not know the meaning of that word.” He shakes his head. “Do you need help washing your hair?” Another question, tentative. There’s a heat behind it that I certainly do not trust myself with, especially not after that kiss.
But I hate washing my hair, which is one of the reasons I have it incredibly short. But now I’m wishing that it weren’t just at my chin. I’m wishing I had a full-on pixie cut. But I can’t help the words from spilling out of my mouth, the truth forced from my throat even though my brain knows I’ll live to regret it.
“My arms are so tired. So yes, I would like help washing my hair.”
It comes out grudging, angry almost.
I stare at him, madder by the minute, but he just smiles.
“Is it so hard to admit you needed help?” he asks me.
“Yes,” I say, and this is a truth I don’t mind saying. “It was absolutely ridiculously hard for me to tell you that I needed help and that I wanted help, because as much as I want help, I don’t want to have feelings for you.”
A wounded expression crosses his face.
“I want to have feelings for you,” he says. “I already do, I think.”
“You can’t have feelings for me,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You hardly know me. I’ve only been mean to you. And any attraction you feel for me at all is probably because of the fact that you poisoned me with your heat garbage, and we’re both horny.”
